Kai narrowed his eyes at the masked figure.
The name Ashir sounded ancient, like it had lived through wars even history forgot.
"If you know why I'm here, then just give me the weapon."
Ashir didn't move.
"Nothing forged by my flame is handed freely. You must earn it."
The forge behind them roared to life, flames licking the air like hungry spirits. The walls trembled, and several weapons hanging nearby burst into fire—mimicking the heat of a god's wrath.
Kai clenched his fists.
"Figures."
He dashed forward.
Sparks flew as Kai summoned raw spiritual energy to his limbs. Ashir didn't flinch—only raised one gauntlet, catching Kai's punch mid-air. The sound cracked through the vault like thunder.
Kai twisted, flipping back, then swept in low—his foot igniting a shockwave that dented the floor.
Ashir moved like molten smoke, each strike carrying weight, but not aggression. He was testing Kai. Watching. Judging.
Blades formed from fire appeared mid-air—flying toward Kai. He spun, ducked, and slammed his palm into the floor, sending out a ripple of energy that scattered the weapons.
He panted—smirking.
"Still think I'm just a ramen boy?"
Ashir stood still. Then, slowly… nodded.
The flames calmed. The forge dimmed.
"You're not strong enough yet. But you have spirit. And that is rare."
Ashir turned, walking toward a sealed platform behind the forge. He placed a palm on the surface—and from it, rose a single, curved blade—its edge not glowing, but humming, as if resonating with Kai's soul.
"This is Nenshō. The blade of memory and hunger. It will grow with you—but it must be fed."
Kai raised an eyebrow.
"Fed?"
Ashir looked back.
"Not with blood. But with resolve. If your will breaks, it will turn on you."
Kai stepped forward, feeling the pull.
He gripped the blade—and the moment he did, the vault shivered again.
Something deeper beneath the forge… stirred.
Ashir's voice dropped.
"Be swift, boy. You've only awakened the first guardian. The second… is not nearly as kind."
Ashir stepped down from the forge, his footsteps echoing like war drums in Kai's chest.
"You're not the only one the blade calls to."
Kai looked up, confused.
Ashir waved a hand—and along the vault walls, ancient carvings lit up—names etched in forgotten language. He touched one, and it shifted into modern symbols.
Yuki. Himari. Ren. Aiko. Haru.
Ashir turned to Kai.
"They're all bound to the cycle. And they will each need a weapon forged from their soulprint."
Kai raised Nenshō slightly, which pulsed with energy.
"You're saying… these weapons already exist?"
Ashir nodded.
"Not exist—sleep. Hidden throughout this land. I forged them, long ago, for another generation who never reached their potential. But you… you all might."
He walked over to a wall panel and pressed it. A drawer slid open—revealing glowing crystal spheres, each hovering above a seal.
"These are beacons. Plant them in sacred ground or deep mythic veins—they will awaken the matching weapon… and call its bearer."
Kai stepped back, breath caught.
"Yuki… will get his."
Ashir met his eyes, voice low but thunderous.
"And so will Nogitsune. Though his weapon… was forged in voidfire."
Kai's eyes widened.
"You forged for him too?"
Ashir gave a slow, heavy nod.
"He came to me once. Long before Yuki's awakening. He didn't ask. He demanded. And I gave him what he earned. His blade is not stored here—it chose a resting place deeper. A place even I do not walk."
Kai's grip on Nenshō tightened.
"Then I'll plant these. And they'll come for what's theirs."
Ashir placed a hand on Kai's shoulder, voice shifting to a more distant, almost fatherly tone.
"But remember—weapons are reflections. If they fall into despair, the blades will respond. Make sure they're ready… or they'll be torn apart by their own strength."
The sky over the kingdom had been strangely quiet.
Ren stood alone at the edge of the ancient cliff known only as The Whispering Rise, a sacred place said to echo the voices of elemental spirits. His cloak fluttered in the soft breeze, but there was tension in the air—like the stillness before a storm.
Below him stretched the valley: green fields, quiet villages, far-off guard towers. But here, where the wind gathered and spoke in old tongues, Ren felt something awaken.
His hand hovered over the ground. Beneath the surface, buried and sealed for centuries, something called to him.
"You've been waiting too long," Ren muttered, eyes narrowing. "Haven't you?"
The ground trembled faintly. A gust spiraled upward, wrapping around him, tugging at his senses—no, not wind. A spirit. A presence older than language.
The stone beneath him cracked, and from it, a hiss of wind and light exploded into the air.
From the dust rose a blade—long, thin, etched with thunderclouds across its surface. Jinrai. The Blade of Thunderous Winds.
Ren stepped forward, arm extended. The blade didn't simply float; it hovered toward him, as if recognizing its master.
And the moment he gripped it—
CRACK!
Lightning burst from the sky, splitting the clouds above the kingdom. A thunderclap shook the nearby villages. Farmers dropped their tools. Soldiers looked up, hands on hilts. Even in the royal court, silence fell.
Ren's eyes glowed with stormlight. For a split second, his aura blurred—like wind and thunder merging into form.
Far away, Aiko looked up sharply. "That... wasn't natural."
Back in the valley, Kai stopped chewing his bread.
"Ren?" he muttered. "What did you just unlock?"
And far off, in a shadowed chamber, Ashir paused mid-forging. The forgemaster smiled knowingly.
"One down," he whispered. "Now it begins."
Deep in the heart of the kingdom, past the training fields and echoing halls of the warrior temples, Haru stood before a crumbled shrine.
Unlike Ren's solitude, Haru had come here guided by whispers of a trial—one that only those of overwhelming spirit could endure.
But before reaching the shrine, his path was blocked.
A figure sat atop a broken statue, long white hair draped over one shoulder, a massive scythe resting lazily across their lap. The figure's presence was… sharp, like a soul wrapped in storms.
"You reek of rage," the figure said.
Haru clenched his fists. "And who are you to judge?"
The stranger chuckled. "Name's Akuro. I guard this forge not for loyalty, but for balance. If you can't balance your fury, you'll burn yourself before touching that blade."
The air grew tense. A low hum vibrated from Akuro's scythe.
"I don't need balance," Haru growled. "I am the fire."
With a smile, Akuro vanished—only to reappear inches from Haru, striking his chest with the flat of the scythe.
The force sent Haru tumbling back.
"Then prove it," Akuro whispered.
The duel that followed wasn't long—but it was brutal. Haru, bloodied and exhausted, refused to kneel. Every punch, every block, carried the force of his journey, his failures, and his relentless will.
Finally, Akuro stopped.
He laughed.
"You'll do," he said, stepping aside. "Go meet your flame, Haru of the roaring soul."
At the shrine
Haru knelt before a scorched altar. The trial began—fire encased him in a burning dome, testing his spirit, searing his thoughts. But he endured.
When the weapon emerged from the fire, massive and burning with lava-veins, Haru stepped forward.
He gripped the hilt.
A surge of power flooded him.
"Raiketsu."
The flames bowed to him.
From afar, the others felt it—Yuki paused, Aiko gasped, and Kai grinned.
Ashir felt the forge hum and whispered, "Three."